


J'ai Envie De Toi

by DragonGirl87



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adopted Children, Beauxbatons, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Children, Clueless Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Durmstrang, Established Relationship, Facebook: DRARRY : Fanfiction and Fanart, First Crush, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Married Couple, POV Alternating, Prompt Fic, Romance, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 11:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20330086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonGirl87/pseuds/DragonGirl87
Summary: Young Lily Potter is curious, just when did her dad realise he had a thing for Draco Malfoy?





	J'ai Envie De Toi

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hadn't planned to write this at all but something about the prompt (Draco Malfoy speaking French and flirting with the Durmstrang boys to drive Harry nuts) tickled me in all the right places and I decided to just go for it. I hope it works for you.
> 
> Translations of French phrases can be found in the endnotes.

* * *

“Dad, can I ask you something?”

Harry looked up from the stack of files on the coffee table in front of him and smiled at Lily, who was casually leaning against the wooden doorframe in the open doorway to the room. She’d pushed her hands deep into her jeans pockets, and her long wavy auburn hair fell around her beautiful freckled face. Even though Lily would be turning eighteen in less than two months, Harry still thought of her as his little girl whenever he looked at her. He didn’t believe that fact would ever change. Lily was his youngest and his only daughter, and he was very protective of her.

Draco regularly mocked him for it and occasionally had to hold him back when he got a bit too possessive. He did it with the best of intentions, and even though Lily was currently dating one of her Hogwarts classmates and wasn’t at all interested in the attention she drew from various male suitors; Harry couldn’t help but glare at anyone who dared to approach her. It was usually around the time he found himself gripping his wand, ready to fire a stinging hex at whatever boy that was talking to his daughter, that Draco stepped in and dragged him away to stop him from embarrassing both himself and Lily in public.

After a whole morning, which Harry had spent in his study, trying to find a solution to a rather urgent problem, Lily’s sudden appearance and her question was a welcome distraction. So far, no matter which way he looked at things nothing seemed to work and Harry was close to cursing his job.

In the hope that a change of surroundings would result in a breakthrough, he had gathered up all files and brought them downstairs into the front room with him.

As customary for a Sunday morning, Draco sat in his favourite armchair by the fireplace and was slowly working his way through several international newspapers on his Muggle tablet. Even though Draco regularly used, and had done so for well over ten years, Muggle technology, Harry still thought it strange and often found himself staring at his husband up to the point where Draco stopped whatever it was he was doing and fixed him with an icy glower.

A little while ago, Harry had asked Draco for his input on a few of his ideas, and while his husband had listened and offered valuable advice, Harry had yet to find a way to rid himself of his troubles.

Pushing his work away, Harry shuffled on the sofa, settled into the backrest, then patted the space beside him.

“Of course, you can, darling.”

Lily pushed herself away from the doorframe and walked into the room. She made her way over to the sofa and sat cross-legged facing Harry.

“It’s a bit of an odd question, and perhaps even a tad bit private too, so if you don’t want to answer, I’ll understand.”

Harry smiled.

“Just ask, Lils, I don’t keep secrets, least of all from my children.”

Harry heard something that vaguely resembled a snort coming from Draco’s armchair, but when he turned his head to glare at his husband, Draco had hidden his face behind his tablet.

“Well, I just wondered when you worked out that you liked Papa. I remember you telling us that you and Papa were rivals when you attended at Hogwarts together, but you divorced mum for him, and somehow I don’t think you woke up one morning and decided that you were in love with your former frenemy.”

Harry smirked at Lily’s use of the word frenemy, then sighed softly. He wasn’t at all surprised about Lily’s interest in his and Draco’s relationship, but at the same time, he had no idea how to answer her question. She and Al were both extremely curious and asked the oddest of questions. Scorpius usually observed, and James voiced whatever thought came to his mind first, a habit that often got him into trouble, even now, in his early twenties.

“What an interesting question, Lily,” Draco piqued up.

Harry turned his head again only to discover that his husband had placed his tablet on the small table beside his armchair and sat with his right leg thrown over his left. He’d laced his fingers together and was currently resting them in his lap. The expression on his face filled Harry with mild trepidation.

“Interestingly enough, Lily, sweetheart, your father, despite being married to me for well over a decade never once told me what first attracted him to me.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at his husband.

“Have you put her up to this?”

Draco smirked, and his silvery-grey eyes twinkled with mirth.

“Potter, I am utterly horrified that you would even think that I’d dare to put such frivolous ideas into our children’s heads. Give our daughter a bit of credit, won’t you? She’s a smart young woman.”

Harry rolled his eyes but refrained from rising to Draco’s deliberate bait. Instead, he turned his attention back to Lily and reminisced for a moment, allowing his mind to take a trip down memory lane to an event some thirty-one years ago.

* * *

* * *

“He’s obsessing over Malfoy again,” Ron said, leaning closer to Hermione to make sure that she’d be the only one to hear him.

She lifted her eyes off the pages of the book, she was perusing with mild interest, turned her head sideways and raised an eyebrow at her friend and classmate.

“What an astute observation, Ronald Weasley,” she drawled, holding Ron’s gaze until he blushed, and somewhat flustered, turned his attention back to the chicken leg in his hand.

“You two have a lot in common, you know,” she said.

Ron half-turned his head to look at her.

“How so?” he asked, his mouth full of a rather large bite of crispy, juicy chicken.

Hermione pulled a face.

“For God’s sake, could you chew first and then speak?”

Ron looked rather sheepish, and instead of continuing the conversation, he hastily chewed his chicken and swallowed it down, then reached for his goblet of pumpkin juice. He took a large gulp and ignored Hermione’s mildly disgusted frown at his lack of table manners.

“Don’t you think we should do something about that?” he then asked, resuming the conversation.

Hermione placed a bookmark inside her book and closed it. She folded her hands on top of it and slowly turned to look at him.

“Have you managed to convince him that it couldn’t have been Malfoy who put his name into the Goblet of Fire?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Ron exhaled audibly.

“He’s sure it was that Slytherin git.”

Hermione shrugged.

“Then it’s useless trying to stop his obsession.”

“How is it that you’re so cool about this?”

Ron raised his voice slightly and flushed. Hermione’s lack of concern over the fact Harry’s eyes seemed to be perpetually glued to Malfoy’s back and that he’d taken to following him around any chance he got rather than trying to work out the dragon egg’s clue irked him.

Hermione chuckled softly.

“Oh Ron, has anyone ever told you that your cluelessness is rather adorable?”

Ron blushed and averted his gaze. He fixed his eyes onto the plate in front of him and picking up a fork; he stabbed a chunky piece of carrot with it. Ron had no idea what Hermione meant. He didn’t think he was especially clueless, but right this moment he couldn’t work out whether his best friend had just admonished him or paid him a compliment.

When Hermione leant closer and pressed her shoulder against his, he nearly jumped half a mile out of his skin and turning his head; he found that Hermione’s lips were less than two inches away from his own. He couldn’t help but glance at them and feeling his cheeks heat, he looked away again and tried to get his pounding heart under control.

“You’ll know soon enough, Ronald,” Hermione whispered.

She pulled away, and Ron instantly found himself missing the closeness of her side pressed up against his own but wasn’t bold enough to be the one to initiate body contact. Instead, he watched as Hermione casually glanced at Harry. He sat at the Gryffindor table, completely lost in thought and entirely oblivious to anything going on around him. His eyes fixed onto Malfoy, who was eating his dinner across the Great Hall at the Slytherin table, surrounded by his minions.

Hermione shook her head, then turned her attention back to her book and quietly resumed eating dinner. She knew that Ron was presently trying to work out what on earth she’d meant with her comment and unable to stop herself from smirking, she reopened her book and continued reading.

* * *

* * *

Harry walked down the last flight of stairs and promptly froze halfway down. Malfoy stood at the bottom of the stairs, surrounded by a crowd of giggling girls from Beauxbatons and he was animatedly chatting with them…in fluent French.

“Je n’oublierai jamais ma visite à Paris l’été dernier. C’était perfait.”

Harry had no idea what Malfoy had just said. He thought he’d heard the word ‘_Paris_’ and something that sounded like ‘_visit_’ and ‘_perfect_’, but before he had the chance to think logically, his mind shut down, unable to comprehend that Draco sodding Malfoy spoke fluent fucking French.

Just about able to stop his jaw drop dropping to the ground, Harry leant against the railing and stared. He stared and listened and listened and stared. That was about all he was capable of doing since his brain was busy telling his heart to stop thumping madly ― why he didn’t know. It felt like it was threatening to plummet down into his stomach, which fluttered with a sensation, Harry absolutely couldn’t place. It wasn’t something he’d ever felt before, but it confused and irritated him. He blamed Malfoy because anything to do with the blond Slytherin git usually riled Harry up and it was also the most straightforward explanation.

He gripped the shoulder strap of his worn brown leather satchel tightly and remained where he was. Right this moment, he didn’t care about the fact that Malfoy was bound to spot him any second now. He also didn’t care that it was highly likely that Malfoy would try to taunt him in some way or other.

At this stage, Harry fully expected that Malfoy would say something mean about him in French, knowing that he couldn’t understand. Whatever he chose to say would, undoubtedly, make those annoying Beauxbatons girls giggle even harder and feeling a wave of inexplicable rage rush over him, Harry wished for them to choke on a mixture of air and their spit as they acted like foolish lovesick puppies around Malfoy.

Tempted to fling a hex or two at Malfoy, Harry slipped his hand inside his robes and gripped his wand tightly, but despite his desire to do so, he refrained from drawing it. Duelling Malfoy in the entrance hall of Hogwarts would most definitely result in detention and the docking of house points, and for a change, Harry did not want to be on the receiving end of either.

Several minutes passed and just as Harry had predicted, Malfoy caught him staring. He paused for a moment, then smirked slyly, and straightening up a little, he continued to speak in French while the multitude of girls around him laughed. Harry glowered darkly and huffing out a breath of annoyance; he forced his body to unfreeze and slowly walked down the last few steps. Harry headed past Malfoy and left the castle. At the doors, he briefly turned, listened for another minute or two, then decided that he urgently needed to get away from the castle and a French-speaking Malfoy.

Harry had no idea why discovering the fact that Malfoy spoke French irked him so much and wasn’t in the least inclined to contemplate it further, but he couldn’t get the fact out of his mind either. As he walked to a somewhat secluded stone bench and sat down on it, the sound of Malfoy speaking fluent French continued to ring in his ears, making his head spin.

His heart continued to thump in his chest, and despite taking several deep breaths in a rather pathetic attempt to calm himself, Harry wasn’t able to do so. His stomach flipped, and something inside it fluttered while the rest of his body felt like someone had set it on fire. Every inch of him burned with an entirely unknown sensation, and for a moment, Harry wondered whether he should talk to Hermione and Ron about it.

He dismissed the idea instantly, deciding that he wasn’t ready to open that can of worms. He was sure that Ron would throw a fit, because, well, he was Ron. And Hermione, well, Hermione would probably lecture him about something he had no hope of understanding.

Somehow, and for some strange reason, Harry was sure about that, he knew that whatever had just happened was something he’d have to work out and understand in his own time.

He sighed and dropping his school bag into the grass beside the bench; Harry leant forward, propped his chin up on the balls of his hands. His elbows dug into his thighs, but he was too distracted to pay much attention to it. His eyes caught sight of a grasshopper, and for a while, Harry tried to focus on it; however, his attention kept drifting back to Malfoy and his perfectly tailored elegant Slytherin robes and his bright blond hair. Letting out another sigh, Harry shook his head and tried to recite potions ingredients but unable to concentrate for longer than a few seconds at a time; he replayed the scene of his discovery of Malfoy’s French skills in his mind.

* * *

* * *

Draco casually leant back against the trunk of the large oak tree in the courtyard and smiled at the two boys from Durmstrang that had approached him some fifteen minutes ago to strike up a conversation. He’d spent the last ten minutes expertly flirting with one of them and winking at him; he made an off-handed comment about Quidditch practice at Durmstrang that was a veiled compliment. The other boy blushed a bit and secretly attempted to elbow his friend’s side.

Since he wasn’t exactly very subtle about it, it was plain as day that he was trying to get his friend to leave and Draco courteously pretended not to notice. When the other student excused himself and left, he smiled politely, then lavished his love interest with all of his attention.

Halfway through their flirtatious banter, Draco caught sight of Potter, who was heading across the courtyard towards the wooden overpass that led away from the castle.

Potter glanced into his direction, walked decidedly slower and it took Draco every ounce of effort to stop the dirty smirk that so desperately wanted to make an appearance. The way Potter glowered at the Durmstrang boy was rather endearing, although Draco shuddered at the thought of anything about Potter being endearing. Still, Potter looked like he was ready to curse that Durmstrang boy into the infirmary and boldly deciding to test a theory, Draco pushed himself away from the tree trunk and reached out to place an arm around the somewhat fit and tall boy from Russia.

The moment he did so, Potter stopped walking, and Draco saw the way he straightened up, gripped the shoulder strap of his school bag tightly and ground his teeth together.

_Poor Potter_, Draco thought with glee. He gently stirred Alesha across the courtyard and towards Potter, and as they walked past, Draco made sure to turn and smirk at Potter. He snarled an insult under his breath, and Potter’s glower turned into a full-fledged glare, however, what amused Draco the most was that even though it had been him who had just insulted Potter, Scarhead continued to pierce Alesha with a deathly glower that, admittedly, had quite the potential.

* * *

* * *

Harry drew his wand and flung a series of curses and hexes at the dead tree stump near the forbidden forest. He growled, stomped his foot and kicked at a stone, then snarled and continued to throw a series of offensive spells at nothing in particular.

“C'est quoi le problème, ‘arry Potter?”

Forcing himself to keep his wand pointed at the ground, Harry whirled around and found himself standing face to face with Malfoy, who stood in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest and a dirty smirk on his face.

“Fuck off, Malfoy.”

“How rude.”

Malfoy’s posh drawl sent a shudder down Harry’s spine. He slowly raised his wand and pointed it at the bane of his existence while pointedly ignoring the fact that the real bane of his life was Voldemort. Right this very moment, Harry couldn’t help but find Malfoy a whole lot more annoying than the megalomaniac, whose name nobody dared to say.

“What do you want?”

“I want a lot of things, Potter.”

Malfoy continued to smirk, and Harry wondered whether there was a curse or a hex that might wipe that dirty grin right off the Slytherin git’s face.

“Tell your father; I’m sure he’ll buy you whatever broom you’ve got your eyes on now.”

Malfoy laughed, took a step closer, and when his eyes trailed over Harry’s body, he felt his skin heat and tingle beneath his robes. He shuffled slightly, and since Malfoy hadn’t drawn his wand, Harry forced himself to lower his. He kept his fingers tightly clasped around the hilt, ready to cast a defensive spell, the second Malfoy tried any funny business.

“You know, Potter, somehow, in this instance, I highly doubt that my father will be able to buy that particular broom.”

Harry frowned.

“Then you’ll just have to whinge to your mother,” he spat.

Malfoy chuckled and uncrossing his arms; he let them dangle at his sides. Harry couldn’t help but give him a once-over and swallowing hard; he dragged his gaze back up to meet Malfoy’s, who gave him a cocky grin and a wink.

“Some brooms can’t be acquired with money, Potter, they require a different currency altogether. Tu es intelligent, tu comprendras.”

“Speak English, Malfoy, you prat.”

“Learn French, Potter, you imbecile.”

With one last smirk, Malfoy turned around and strode off, leaving Harry to stare after him, open-mouthed. He tried to work out what had just happened but unable to do so, he felt a new wave of anger surge through him and turning his attention back to the dead, entirely innocent, tree stump, Harry continued to attack it with a series of spells until he’d managed to set it on fire. He cast Aguamenti to extinguish the fire and folding himself together, he slumped into the grass and sighed.

His conversation with Malfoy continued to replay in his mind, but it made absolutely no sense to him. Never mind, that he hadn’t understood half of it, whatever Malfoy had said about brooms made even less sense to Harry than what Malfoy had muttered in French.

“Gah!” he spat, frightening a small flock of nearby birds that escaped into the sky.

Malfoy was becoming more and more troublesome with each passing day. These days, he was either flaunting his lanky body in places, Harry didn’t want to see anyone flaunting himself, or a bunch of Beauxbatons girls surrounded him ― apparently even Madame Maxime, Beauxbatons’ headmistress had taken to Malfoy when she wasn’t busy attempting to flirt with Hagrid, who’d clearly fallen hard for the giant woman. Whenever Malfoy wasn’t stood in the middle of a crowd of French girls in their light-blue satin school uniforms, entertaining them with his French skills, he was walking around with a boy from Durmstrang; Harry wanted to curse to the bottom of the Black Lake.

Growling into the space around him, Harry made one last attempt to clear his mind and stop thinking about Malfoy, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his thoughts under control.

He got back up and grabbing his schoolbag; Harry stalked across the Hogwarts grounds in a desperate attempt to find something to distract him with. Unfortunately, nothing managed to distract him for long enough, and after two hours of walking around the castle, he decided to return to Gryffindor Tower. He stalked through the Common Room, ignored his friends, and heading up to the boys’ dormitories; he decided to take a very long, freezing shower.

* * *

* * *

Harry finished his tale and falling silent; he smiled at Lily. His daughter reciprocated with a smile of her own, then leant forward and hugged him. In response, Harry wrapped his arms around Lily and drawing her close; he squeezed her tightly.

“You were in love with Papa when you were fourteen,” she whispered right into his ear.

Harry chuckled softly.

“I guess I was, Lils.”

Lily wriggled out of his embrace, and Harry reluctantly let her go but reached for her petite hand and placed it between his much larger callused hands. They both turned to look at Draco, who still sat in his armchair and smiled warmly at them both.

“Papa, did you know?” Lily asked.

Draco nodded.

“Of course. I figured it out long before your dad won the Triwizard Tournament. He wasn’t exactly very subtle about his feelings, never has been.”

“I’m glad you found each other, you know, even if it took both of you marrying the wrong people and getting divorced.”

Draco smiled.

“Your dad’s never been one to do things the easy way. It’s his way or no way.”

Harry chuckled.

“Aren’t you talking about yourself there, Malfoy?”

“I know when to retreat, Potter, you, however, are a stubborn mule―”

“But you love me.”

Draco laughed.

“But I love you.”

“If I may ask, why did you want to know when I fell for your Papa?” Harry asked, however, before his daughter could answer, Draco doubled over and started laughing.

“Potter, seriously, haven’t we been married for long enough? Has absolutely none of my Slytherin intuitiveness rubbed off on you over the years? It’s entirely obvious.”

Harry frowned.

“Enlighten me then, Malfoy, you all-knowing deity.”

Before Draco could speak, Lily cleared her throat and turning his head; Harry raised a questioning eyebrow at her. She blushed furiously, and after several minutes of harrumphing and refusing to meet his gaze, she finally confessed to having made a bed with her three brothers and their cousin Teddy, who were all waiting in the gazebo outside in the garden for her report.

Harry groaned, ran his fingers through his unruly mop of hair and shook his head.

“It’s not me you have rubbed off on, Malfoy, it’s my children! You’ve completely corrupted them!”

Draco clicked his tongue.

“Wrong pronoun, Potter. _Our_ children and I do not like that accusation. Those five brats have always been sneaky Slytherins even if only two of them made it into the Hogwarts dungeons. Lils, run along now and tell the boys to fork over the money since I’m sure you won whatever bet the lot of you made.”

* * *

* * *

“Half a lifetime together but parfois, la mesure à laquelle j'ai envie de toi me terrifie,” Draco whispered against Harry’s lips and captured them in a passionate kiss before his husband had the chance to ask him to what he’d just said.

He gently eased himself on top of Harry, shifted some of his bodyweight to his arms and slowly breaking away from the kiss, he smiled at the man who’d bewitched him some thirty-five years ago. Harry smiled back, brought his hands up and ran them through his hair. Draco exhaled softly and relished in the tender touch. Harry’s nimble fingers found his shoulders and gently began to massage them to untwist his tension knots.

“Did you know? Back then, I mean. Or did you say that to make sure Lils won the bet?”

Draco chuckled.

“I knew, Harry. A Slytherin always knows. We’ve got a nose for these sort of things. Besides, you were like a bull in a china shop when it came to the way you felt about me.”

Harry scoffed at first, but his next words were a heartfelt confession of his cluelessness, and they instantly reminded Draco of a childish innocence both he and Harry had once possessed but which had been taken away from them for all the wrong reasons.

“I didn’t know. Not until much later,” Harry said with a soft sigh.

Draco pressed a tender kiss to his lips, silent reassurance that he didn’t care about all those years they’d wasted. Back when they’d been young, it had been necessary. Circumstances had required it, and if he was honest, Draco was rather proud of the fact that it had taken them until they’d both turned thirty to finally stop dancing around each other and proudly stand by their feelings.

After the war, they’d both been too damaged and not bold enough to pursue a relationship. Instead, they’d both played it safe, and while that hadn’t helped them to find happiness, they’d managed to help produce four lovely children but had raised five in total. What with Teddy’s wedding next year, there would soon be a six child to raise, a grandchild, and they were both looking forward to that delightful challenge.

“You were clueless, yet you couldn’t stop staring. And your green-eyed monster took over whenever you saw me stand too close to a boy. Finding ways to tease you about it, even if you didn’t know why you were so mad, was the highlight of my day.”

Harry rolled his eyes and scoffed, but Draco kissed him again, and that was all it took. Draco didn’t stop there, though, he never did. He boldly dealt his ace card and delighted in the way Harry blushed whenever he heard him say _those_ words in French.

“Je t’aime. À mes yeux, tu es parfait,“ he whispered, rubbing the tip of his nose against Harry’s in a tender nose kiss.

It had taken Draco quite a bit of time to work out that his husband had a serious thing about hearing him speak French. Although, ever since he’d discovered Harry’s kink, he occasionally used it in to get the upper hand. He always made sure to be slightly sweet about it, and Harry never told him to drop it.

“I think it was infatuation at first, even if I didn’t know it, but that day, when I heard you speak French, that’s when I fell in love with you, although I didn’t know that either.”

Draco smiled and allowed a warm rumble of laughter to bubble up from deep inside him. It filled the small space between them and then reverberated around the room.

“You didn’t know a lot of things, and you still don’t. For instance, you still won’t believe me when I tell you that I fell for you the very first time we met.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy. You were bloody eleven; you didn’t know the meaning of love back then, not romantic love anyway.”

“Perhaps not, but I felt something for you and I wanted to be your friend so badly.”

Harry’s expression softened a little more, and he smiled. His previously nearly crimson-red blush paled to a faint pink one and unable to resist, Draco kissed both of Harry’s cheeks, loving the roughness of Harry’s five o’clock shadow against his soft and sensitive lips.

“Husband has a better ring to it if you ask me.”

“Oui, je suis d’accord.”

“Oh, stop it already,” Harry said, but the sassy grin that curled his lips upward and the cheeky twinkle in his emerald-green eyes gave him away instantly.

“You like it way too much.”

Draco laughed.

Harry growled, but there was no bite to his bark whatsoever.

Draco knew.

He could tell, always.

It was one of the many reasons why they’d managed to turn their past into the glue that held their relationship together. They were open and honest with each other even if they didn’t use words to communicate half of the time.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> **“J'ai Envie De Toi.”** _“I want you.”_
> 
> **“Je n’oublierai jamais ma visite à Paris l’été dernier. C’était perfait.”** _“I'll never forget my visit to Paris last summer. It was perfect.”_
> 
> **“C'est quoi le problème, ‘arry Potter?”** _“What's the matter, Harry Potter?”_
> 
> **“Tu es intelligent, tu comprendras.”** _“You're intelligent, you'll figure it out.”_
> 
> **“Parfois, la mesure à laquelle j'ai envie de toi me terrifie.”** _“Sometimes, it terrifies me how much I want you.”_
> 
> **“Je t’aime. À mes yeux, tu es parfait.”** _“I love you. To my eyes, you are perfect.”_
> 
> **“Oui, je suis d’accord.”** _“Yes, I agree.”_
> 
> Credit where credit is due, thank you to the wonderful **QuokkasAreMarsupians** for fixing the French phrases in my story — I must admit they read much better now. Thanks you!


End file.
